


dealing with eternity

by qwanderer



Series: in the habit of saving the world [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley paints, Getting Together, M/M, Other, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), or at least a significant step in a very long process of Getting Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 21:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19876459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwanderer/pseuds/qwanderer
Summary: But the fact is that he’s still got eternity to deal with. It’s a better one for still having the world in it, and Aziraphale. But Crowley is surprised by the emptiness left when he no longer has demon-ing in it to be the Thing He Does.





	dealing with eternity

An angel and a demon are sitting on the front porch of their cottage on the south downs, looking out at their front garden and enjoying their tea.

At least in theory, that’s what they’re doing.

In actuality, the demon is brooding, and the angel is worrying. 

“Are you all right, my dear?” Aziraphale says into the admittedly somewhat oppressive silence.

Distractedly, Crowley mutters, “Fine, fine.” 

Aziraphale clears his throat, and Crowley turns to look at him, because that is the sound of his angel getting onto a subject he is Not About To Drop and it’s no use trying to tune it out, because it will continue until it has been Adequately Addressed, whatever that might mean to Aziraphale at any given moment. 

“Only you don’t seem to be happy to be here,” Aziraphale says. “I know I suggested sharing this place, but do remember, if the city makes you happier, you can always go back.”

The tone is Encouraging in that distinctive way that the angel has of not letting any of his own negative feelings on a subject into his voice if he feels they aren’t warranted. Crowley recognizes it from such performances as “Hamlet Is A Wonderful Play, Don’t Worry About The Low Turnout, This Will All Work Out!”

In other words, he uses it when he thinks a miracle might be necessary. Crowley winces.

“That isn’t… it’s not like that. You, this place… it’s great. It’s all great.” He tries to turn his tone teasing. “And you’d miss me too much, anyway. We can’t have that. You do have a history of getting yourself into trouble so I’ll come back and get you out of it again.”

“Crowley.” 

Yup, no, diversion _not_ accomplished. The angel is still determined to Fix This. 

“I don’t want my happiness if it’s at the expense of your own,” Aziraphale says, terribly seriously.

Crowley sighs, and lowers his sunglasses to look at Aziraphale over them. Puts all of his earnestness into one sentence. A true one, even. “Trust me, angel, there is nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Aziraphale makes a moue, considering. “I do trust you,” he says. “But do let me know if there is ever anything I can do to help you.”

“Yup,” Crowley says. “Will do.”

Once he bloody well figures out what he wants.

-⎎-

Here’s the thing:

Crowley would follow Aziraphale anywhere.

Aziraphale is the most important element in the equation. Otherwise Crowley would never have asked him to run away to Alpha Centauri.

Alpha Centauri really is beautiful, in an open, dramatic way, almost akin to Crowley’s flat. But Crowley wouldn’t actually want to live there unless a) Earth was no longer an option and b) Aziraphale was there too.

They’ve usually gravitated towards bustling hubs of humanity, London or Rome or Tokyo or Shanghai or Paris. Not only was influencing humanity their job, but they also just liked humans. 

So this quiet retirement thing is new, but Crowley is determined to give it a fair chance.

There’s an appeal to life being pretty much just the two of them. They can revel in their ability to fraternize without fear of interference. They can have the space to set things up however they like. They’ve got the beach and the quiet village with a couple of decent restaurants, they’ve got an okay-sized lounge full of all Crowley’s plants and the art they’ve both collected over the centuries, they’ve got a garden to keep in order. They’ve got a spare bedroom which has very naturally transformed itself into a walk-in closet split neatly between rich and light on one side, and modern and dark on the other.

They each have their own spaces to retreat to still, even if they’re smaller individually than their places in London. Aziraphale has his library, and Crowley has his bedroom. For the first couple of weeks, he spends as much time as he possibly can just sleeping, or lounging, or any other way you can say “doing absolutely nothing and loving it.”

It’s nice, the quiet, and being able to see Aziraphale any time he likes. It’s lazy, and Crowley loves lazy. And he certainly doesn’t mind no longer being at Hell’s beck and call.

But.

After the first month, it’s no longer like being on holiday, and it starts to feel like being trapped.

As much as he lov - as much as he - shit, okay. As much as he… loves Aziraphale, he’s bored, okay. There’s only so much sleeping a demon can do before it feels like waiting for a particularly nasty century to be over all over again, and Crowley has hit a point where he’s realized he has what he’d thought he wanted and there is nothing really so wrong with this century except Crowley himself. 

He’s literally bored of himself.

He hasn’t got a purpose, he supposes. What’s a good-hearted demon to do?

He tried spreading mischief and discord just out of habit, just for a lark. But he finds it’s a lot less fun in a tiny village than in a huge metropolis, or on a global scale.

The why of that is unexpected. As one of the idiots who lived in London, Crowley often found the mischief he sowed would come back to bite him in the end, which was annoying on occasion. But living in a sleepy village on the South Downs provides a completely new way of screwing himself over with his own petard. 

The thing about making mischief where you live, when you know all your neighbors by name and even like more than half of them all right, is that when the mischief hits _anyone_ it feels like it’s hitting you.

So who is Crowley, the newly-unemployed demon? What is his purpose, outside of lounging decoratively nearby while Aziraphale reads?

Not that that’s not, you know, something _worth doing_. It absolutely is. Crowley’s just coming round to the realization that it might not be worth doing _full-time_.

He tries to think of who he is. He struggles to think of things he identifies with himself, outside of Hell and Aziraphale.

The throne, that’s about Hell. The plants… well, if Crowley is being honest with himself (which he rarely is, but this situation seems to call for it) the plants are about Heaven, and about Her. And the sculptures, the two biggest ones at least, those are about Aziraphale.

Leo’s sketch, though, that’s just here because Crowley likes it.

Crowley does some drawing himself, from time to time, but it’s never been A Big Thing. He had other shit to worry about. 

Now he doesn’t. Now there’s just this yawning void. 

As he put it so aptly to Aziraphale when they were drunk over the prospect of the apocalypse, “When it’s all over, then you’ve got to deal with _eternity_.” Or something to that effect. He was extremely drunk. It’s gone a bit fuzzy.

But the fact is that he’s still got eternity to deal with. It’s a better one for still having the world in it, and Aziraphale. But Crowley is surprised by the emptiness left when he no longer has demon-ing in it to be the Thing He Does.

So Crowley starts sketching again. And it helps, it really does, only he keeps imagining things he can’t even begin to portray with paper and pencils. He keeps starting in and thinking about stars and planets and nebulas, the celestial realm in all its glory, and what it was like to have the universe as his canvas. 

So he does the next logical thing - he goes out and buys an enormous amount of canvas. And a lot of paint.

The bedroom becomes a studio. Paint gets flecked on the black dupion silk coverlet like stars in the sky. The cottage begins to feel less like Aziraphale’s shop transplanted into the country and more like _home_.

-⎎-

“Are you drawing me?” Aziraphale asks curiously, as Crowley’s pencil scratches over the page, sunglasses currently tucked away so he can better see his subject matter, the angel he’s been flicking glances at over his sketchpad all afternoon.

“No,” Crowley says, and quickly turns his attention to shading the background, so he won’t technically have lied.

“Ah,” Aziraphale responds, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and oh, that’s perfect, Crowley absolutely needs to capture what that little motion does to his face. “Carry on then,” the angel says, and returns his attention to his book.

-⎎-

Aziraphale has seen some of his work. Not much. Crowley doesn’t like it when they’re seen before they’re finished, and he utterly hates the idea of anyone watching him work. Especially in paint.

It reminds him of forging the stars, and being judged, and being found wanting.

There’s something of a self-portrait that he did first (not counting numberless sketches and false starts). Some of the constellations he’s most proud of shine brightly in a sky of rich black-blues and purples and tiny hints of red and green. Spread out below the sky is a lake, reflecting the stars with its ripples, and it’s almost a beautiful, peaceful picture until one sees the snake in the water, writhing in agony.

Crowley brings it out, to test the waters, so to speak, when he can no longer justify not showing Aziraphale anything of what he’s been working on.

Aziraphale goes silent for a long time when he first sees it, and Crowley can’t read his face, which is unusual.

“It’s rubbish, isn’t it,” Crowley says at last. “Too bloody obvious. Self-indulgent. I’m wallowing.”

“Oh, no, my dear, it’s beautiful,” Aziraphale responds immediately, his voice full of a terrible sad reverence. “If you don’t mind, I should like to hang it by the mantel. To the left, where the Liuthar illumination is now.”

“What? The one with all the gold leaf? But you love that one.”

“Do you know, I think I love this more,” says Aziraphale.

After that, Crowley has to leave immediately and go lie down for a while.

-⎎-

At first the angel seems quite content to leave Crowley to figure his shit out on his own. To keep his work mostly secret, with the exception of the terrible self-portrait now hung in pride of place in their lounge, and one that’s just an enormous expanse of two overlapping wing studies, one white and one black, that hasn’t even figured out which way up it wants to be hung, let alone if there’s a place in the house where it might be profitably displayed.

So Crowley keeps sketching Aziraphale, keeps working on his third painting, without showing Aziraphale any of it.

When it goes on for too long, however, Aziraphale starts to get worried again.

“Crowley,” the angel says into one of those silences where the pencil moving across the page is the loudest sound, “why won’t you show me what you’re working on?”

“Not done yet,” Crowley answers, as he always does.

“Is that the same one, this whole time?”

“Studies for the same painting. None of them came out right.”

“Ah,” says Aziraphale, but there’s still a wrinkle between his brows. 

“I’ll manage eventually,” Crowley insists. “Tell me what you’re reading about.”

That gets the subject off Crowley’s art for half an hour, at least, while Aziraphale talks about the differences between the various editions of Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land, with a sidebar on the bizarre portrayal of the Archangels therein. Crowley gets a great deal of inspiration from the array of faces Aziraphale makes during this speech.

But afterwards there’s still doubt in the angel’s eyes, when he glances at the sketchbook, or up, in the direction of Crowley’s room. 

“Why does it matter what my drawing of you looks like?” Crowley asks, after he’s resigned himself to the fact that this worry isn’t going away. 

“I want to know how you see me,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley is surprised how much hesitance there is in his tone. 

“You know how I feel about you, don’t you?” Crowley says, and perhaps it’s too casual, but he doesn’t want to risk veering too far the other way. Going too fast. 

“In a general sense, yes,” Aziraphale says. “But after I saw that picture” - the angel gestures to that first canvas, just to the left of the fireplace - “I realized how well-suited that manner of expression is to you. There are things in that painting that I knew the edges of, but seeing it… seeing it made me _feel_ them.”

Well. That just makes it all the more dangerous for Crowley to get this at all wrong, doesn’t it?

“Do you really _want_ to know? Like that? Are you ready?” Crowley asks, his own eyebrows pushing together now.

Aziraphale’s mouth forms a gentle little “o” as he realizes what that implies, based on previous interactions. The angel takes a breath. 

“I think,” he says, “I think it’s time that I faced all of it, yes. You’re a creature of questions, of choices and freedom, and I worry that I’m hurting you by doing everything I can to keep you close, but not too close. Choosing a path for you that’s far too narrow and making you walk it. I have been a coward, perhaps, but I’m afraid I simply don’t know what I would do without you.”

“You haven’t made me do anything, angel,” Crowley objects.

Aziraphale looks a little relieved at that. But his eyes are still trained on Crowley expectantly.

“I’ll show you soon,” Crowley promises. “Soon as the painting’s done.”

-⎎-

But it’s never quite right, never quite good enough, never has as much of Aziraphale’s spirit shining out of it as he feels it should have. But the painting is taking too long, and now it’s Aziraphale who’s waiting on Crowley.

And perhaps it is a choice, even if it’s not a conscious one, but one day Crowley is sprawling on his bed, taking a break from staring at the damned piece, and when Aziraphale comes and knocks on the door and says he’s brought cocoa, Crowley calls for him to come in automatically before remembering he hasn’t hidden the painting as he usually would. 

“My dear, I - oh,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley miracles the full mugs out of his hands and onto a side table with a snap, as they look in danger of being completely forgotten. Aziraphale doesn’t appear to register the loss, as he stares at the painting.

It’s a large canvas, nearly six and a half feet wide by about four tall, because although it’s a portrait and although Crowley has rarely seen Aziraphale manifest his wings, Aziraphale’s wings are an indelibly important part of Crowley’s impression of him, from the very beginning. 

The richness and depth of the tones of gold used throughout the painting had taken a lot of time to get right, a lot of patience, but of course what tortured Crowley most was the face itself, and especially the eyes. They don’t quite sparkle enough. How could they ever?

But Aziraphale is here, now, seeing it, so it’ll have to do. And Aziraphale looks - 

Aziraphale is crying.

Tears are streaming down his cheeks, and again he says “Oh,” as if he keeps seeing it for the first time again. “Oh, Crowley.”

“Is it…” Crowley gets off the bed and approaches slowly, biting his lip. “Too much?”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer, at least not with words, but he reaches for Crowley, and when Crowley offers up his hand, Aziraphale grasps it tightly in both of his own, still not looking away from the painting. 

“It’s,” he manages at last, “Crowley, it’s breathtaking. I didn’t… I didn’t realize.” And then he does look at Crowley. 

Crowley isn’t wearing his sunglasses - would have seemed a bit silly, putting them on now, when he’s got more to be worried about saying too much with than just his eyes. 

The moment stretches out, just the two of them looking at each other. Crowley thinks one of the two of them might break with the force of this moment, and he honestly couldn’t say which one. Then Aziraphale squeezes his hand, so very gently, and says, “I love you, too.”

Crowley makes a little broken noise (it was him after all, he supposes, but not in the way he feared), and he folds into Aziraphale’s space, tucking his face into the angel’s neck, and they’re clinging to each other. 

“Good,” Crowley says. “That’s good. That’s all right, then.”

Aziraphale hums in agreement, and doesn’t move, except to very gently sway.

-⎎-

Crowley wakes up in his studio as usual, the painting staring at him, still not managing to be quite everything Aziraphale is to him, but right now that’s fine. He’s got the genuine article to look at, tucked in safe against his side, and unusually for the angel, sound asleep.

It’s just right, and it’s not quite right. Like the painting, he supposes. This is the human world, and nothing here is quite perfect, but the world is all the more lovely for that.

Crowley is torn. This space is still his, still private. He still doesn’t want Aziraphale popping in whenever he pleases like it’s a shared space. But waking up like this, with his angel stretched out beside him, warm and soft and peaceful… _that_ , he could get used to. 

Aziraphale stirs. 

“Morning, angel,” Crowley says, ruffling his hair. 

“Mmm,” Aziraphale responds. “Morning, my love,” he says vaguely, and reaches out to entwine their fingers before resting his head against Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley presses a light kiss to his forehead, then looks up at the ceiling, thinking. “Ah,” he says.

“What are you thinking of, my dear?” Aziraphale asks. 

“You know, I was thinking of making this a real studio, moving the bed into the other room. Get less paint on it that way.”

“Really?” Aziraphale raises his head to look at crowley properly. “What about all our clothes?”

“Oh, that? Most of that mess can go in the attic.”

Aziraphale frowns. “We haven’t got much of one.”

Crowley snaps his fingers, pointing up. “Now we do.”

“Well, then.” Aziraphale beams at him. “I think that’s a marvelous plan.”

-⎎-

A couple of years later, Crowley has enough pieces he’s happy enough with to do a show at the little gallery in town. 

Crowley is creating again. Their little universe feels bigger every day. Especially with little pieces of Crowley ready to go out into the world, making his mark.

They keep those first three paintings, though, of course.

They end up hanging the wing studies on the ceiling in their bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> [Me on tumblr](http://qwanderer.tumblr.com) and [my books on tumblr](http://irenewendywode.com)
> 
> A note about comments: I love and appreciate every one! Recently I haven't been able to reply to most of them because of spoon allocation, but if you want to hack my brain into starting a convo without using a spoon, asking a direct question usually works! Also feel free to hit up my askbox/chat on ^tumblr!


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